


Deluge

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Canon As Subplot, Deleted Scenes, Episode Codas, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e04 Metamorphosis, Episode: s04e10 Heaven and Hell, Erotica, First Time, Hell Trauma, M/M, Mirror Sex, Porn as Plot, Season/Series 04, Shaving, Shower Sex, first time aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Fresh out of Hell, Dean’s run out of reasons to deny himself what Sam’s asking for—even if it means fighting through flashbacks, demonic scheming, and whatever Sam’s hiding from him. (Deleted scenes and episode codas from the early weeks of Season 4.)
Relationships: Canon Anna Milton/Dean Winchester (offscreen), Canon Ruby/Sam Winchester (offscreen), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 84
Collections: Dean Winchester Big Bang 2021





	Deluge

**Author's Note:**

> [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki), my love, you have outdone yourself again. Thank you for beautiful Dean, and for you. [Samshinechester](https://samshinechester.tumblr.com/), heroic doesn’t even cover it. Love and gratitude to both of you, with all my heart. 💜💖

Sam’s lying to him. 

“Sure, Bobby.” His voice filters from the other room. “I’ll tell him.”

Dean splashes water on his hypocrite face. 

“Keep us posted,” Sam says. 

In the mirror, the walls behind Dean heave, bleed like a flayed chest. 

Loud knock from the hallway makes him jump. 

Sam again: “I gotta go.”

Rattling chain lock, thunking deadbolt.

“Keep the change. Thank you.”

Smells of garlic and tomato and crust hit Dean’s nose. Mix with the sex stink still hanging around long since Sam’s woman friend left.

Dean takes a breath. He’d forgotten about the pizza.

“Hey, Dean?” Forced casual can’t camouflage the quake in Sam’s voice. “Soup’s on, if you’re hungry.”

Dean takes a leak, scrubs his hands, lingers. Baseball blares to life on the TV. Blowing out his cheeks, cracking his neck, he strides out to face Sam—parked on the little fold-out sofa with an open pizza box and two beers sweating on the coffee table. 

Sam turns tornado eyes toward him, churning swirls of color and emotion like Dean’s a miracle, like he’s a menace. “There’s no meat on it; I’m really sorry.” Sam ducks his head.

“I’ll live.”

Half a year and a half a lifetime back, Sam cornered him. _“I can save you, Dean, but you have to help me.”_

“Fuckin’ hippie.” Here and now, Dean crowds Sam on the couch. “As long as you didn’t defile it with pineapple.” Truth be told, he could pass on the pizza and haul Sam into his lap.

“You know,” Sam gets indignant, “Hawaiian pizza—”

“If you start in about chicken and barbecue sauce, I swear to God, Sam.” Old, comfortable conflict curls around him like a blanket. He bumps Sam’s shoulder. Springs squeak. Sam doesn’t move away and Dean doesn’t either. He plasters his eyes to the TV.

 _“Are you two… together?”_ He feels kinda bad for the girl.

_“No!”_

_Not for lack of trying, sweetheart_.

Sam acted like he didn’t know her name, what a brush-off. He glances over and Sam’s trying not to cry. 

Panic bells clamor in Dean’s head. Echo of souls sobbing, pleading. He folds his arms, feels the raised bumps on his shoulder through his t-shirt. Good reason to bail for the bathroom, get a better look at that handprint. Dean strips to his shorts and starts inspecting himself in the full-length mirror. 

He’s… new. Missing scars, but his tattoo made it out of Hell; that’s a trip. He runs fingers over his smooth, blank chest. Sam looms up behind him, tall and broad. Kid got big while Dean was downstairs. He skates a thumb up Dean’s back, makes him shiver. Sam touches, tracks the memories of the close-calls Dean used to carry on his skin.

Former knife-mark here, ex-exit wound there. 

Sam slips an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls them flush. Dean melts into the warm, firm truth of him.

“You remember?” Sam lays a hand on Dean’s pec—where, since he was sixteen, he’d had jagged lines earned when a poltergeist put him through plate glass.

“My _big break_ into hunting,” Dean jokes. “Course I remember.”

Sam flattens his lips. Still looks a little weepy even as he manhandles Dean, palms all over his flanks. Shoulder, bullet through-and-through. Low on his throat where a hostage-taker once nicked him. 

Last time they stood this close. _“I can save you, Dean, but you have to help me.”_ Big paw swallowed up Dean’s jaw. _“You have to let me.”_ He’d already started hearing the Hellhounds. 

Sam circles Dean’s left wrist, feels his forearm. Sam’s is criss-crossed with hair-thin pale lines, like Dean’s used to be, spoils of spellwork and species tests. Low belly. Werewolf. Only grazed him but in the moment Dean had been sure he’d got _got_ , thought he’d look down at his guts spilling out. “You screamed,” Dean says.

“I got its attention.” Sam traces the phantom claw marks, one-two-three-four. Fingers push inside Dean’s waistband. Hesitation. Eyes plead in the mirror. 

He couldn’t let Sam kiss him then, not staring down Hell. Not with every other fucking sin already on his tab and hours left.

He breathes out, leans back, rests his head against Sam’s cheek.

What’s incest now? After what Dean’s done…

Sam chokes a moan, strokes his underside. Marble hard behind him, bowstring taut. Pleasure. Dean grinds on him. Can’t even look. Sam winds around. Touching, teasing. Long arm snakes across Dean’s chest and Sam’s hand swallows the red, raised welt on Dean’s shoulder. Dean sinks into the sensations. Sam talks; Dean can’t parse it. 

He thrusts into Sam’s grip, obscene movement in his boxers, in the mirror. Sweat shimmers in the shitty fluorescent. He meets Sam’s eyes. Glassy, dilated like he’s high. Sam jerks faster, clamps tighter, buries his face in Dean’s neck crook. Scrapes with his teeth.

Dean comes yelling, seizing, locked in Sam’s arms. His knees give. Sam holds on. 

“…beautiful…”

Dean zones out. Can’t hear praise right now, but he sure as shit can’t tell Sam that. Wet spot up his back gives him a foothold. “Damn, Sammy, I knew I was good, b—”

Sam spins him, kisses him, smears come all over him. Dean offers up his tongue, pushes between Sam’s lips and licks at him like a man dying of thirst. Sam rumbles, backs Dean out of the bathroom and crashes them across the bed. He pins Dean, presses him to the mattress from his chest to his knees. Mouths up under Dean’s ear, nips the lobe. Sweaty body blankets Dean and he starts to squirm. 

_this-is-sam. this-is-sam._

Covering his chest with kisses. Dean fights to focus: Pizza, sex, and musty hourly-motel smells. Stiff-starched bedspread. He scrabbles at Sam’s shoulders, claws his back. Holds up pretty good until Sam pushes his legs apart.

Hellfire. And at the time Dean thought, _My. God. Will you stop that screaming…_ just in time to realize the screamer was him. 

Takes everything he’s got not to wrench away. He could flip Sam, lay him out— _fuck_. Sammy being spread-eagle ain’t gonna work either. 

He scrabbles, drags Sam so they’re nose-to-nose. “It’s enough,” he says, and he kisses Sam—hesitation before Sam kisses back. They catch their breath. Sam clings to him. Dean tucks Sam’s head under his chin and cradles. Falls asleep, sort of, once Sam’s snores tamp down the wail of souls.

*

He can’t touch Sam like he wants to, standing in Bobby’s kitchen with his ears still popping from that dick angel’s exit. 

_“The rising of the witnesses is one of the 66 seals.”_

Sam pads out from the living room with a yawn and stretch that bares a strip of pale belly. Full puppy mode, forehead all scrunched up and eyes moist. “Hey. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“So…” Nothing but to dive right into it. “You got no problem believing in… God and angels?”

“No, not really.”

“Which I guess means you believe in the Devil too, huh?”

Sam squints. “Why are you asking me all this?”

“Let’s go for a ride.” Dean’s grateful for the talking points once they’ve rolled out. Their last long haul, Pontiac back here to Sioux Falls, maybe ten words passed between them, not counting _I gotta piss_. Dean couldn’t keep his hands off. Tormented Sam with smacks and nudges until he balled up his coat against the shotgun window and slept. After that, Dean left his hand on the bony knee Sam hooked up in the seat. 

He fills Sam in.

“‘Lucifer walks free.’” Sam’s eyes flash… angry? “He literally said that.”

“And he threatened to send me back to Hell for being a smartass, so…” 

“Dean, you really could be respectful. He’s an _angel_.”

“Yeah, so everybody keeps saying.” Dean merges onto the Interstate. He’s keyed up enough to make it all the way, he thinks.

“Where are we going?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “Weather Channel said there was a weird lightning storm down around Omaha yesterday. I figure—”

“Demon signs, smart.” Sam digs his computer bag out of the backseat.

“Catch one, maybe. Carve Lilith’s plan out of it.” Dean winces, but Sam’s eyes dart away and he swallows. “And-uh…” Dean knocks a couple of times on Sam’s arm. Knuckles linger. “I thought we could use a little we-time.” 

Sam’s head snaps around and he rakes Dean with his eyes as he settles back. Flashes his tongue and hints a smile.

Dean pets his way down, gives Sam’s thigh a squeeze. “In the morning, we’ll call Bobby, get him on this Seals thing.” He’d barely slept the last two nights, patch of floor he’d crashed on since he was eight years old. They’d both pretended like Sam’s hand, flopped off the couch and on Dean’s ankle, was a total accident.

“Yeah, all right.” Sam’s wound tight, quad muscles bristle under Dean’s palm. 

He springs on Dean, the minute they’re behind closed doors. Kisses the back of his neck, claws at his clothes. They fall on the first bed. Half wrestling match as they strip each other. Roll together. Dean gets a hand on Sam and works him, merciless, until the kid shoots, slick and scalding, up between their bellies. 

Dean swears. Sam starts in apologizing, _so excited_ and _wanted_ and _so long_. Dean shushes him. Strokes him soft and stares while Sam shakes. Sam paws at him, squirms and clutches. Sweat beads in fat drops at his neck and temples.

“Dean, I…” Sam slithers off the side of the bed. “Let me…” from his knees.

“Aw, fuck,” Dean groans. Sam’s mess trails down through his pubes. Sam maneuvers in between his thighs and licks. “That is so nasty, Sammy.” _So hot_. Dean finger-combs his hair, and Sam looks up.

Lashes fan under his brows and he wets his lips. Dean buzzes, moans when Sam seals hot around him. Fingernails dig in the sheets; Sam tight-fists his root. Dean palms Sam’s face and neck and shoulders. Digs his heels in the coarse carpet when Sam amps the suction. Runs his hand up Dean’s treasure trail and swallows more. Throat seizes and Dean hisses. Sam slides off, swirls at Dean’s head, tickles his tongue around, makes Dean yell. Sam cranes up, sinks down, bobs and jacks. Dean’s whole length. Warm and tight and wet.

“Sammy,” he warns.

Sam sucks harder, moves faster. Dean quakes, bedsprings screech when he can’t put off thrusting anymore. Muscles clench. Sweat drops trail, tingle on his skin. Sam’s practically a shaggy brown blur, mauling Dean’s dick with his mouth and hands. Sam’s eyes flutter up, watery lust-dark.

Dean falls back. Hollers. Flails and claws the sheets and lets Sam drain him. Fingers, lips, and tongue. Dean grunts and grinds Sam’s face, fires an aftershock. Sam stays at him. Sucks until Dean shoves him off.

When they kiss, Sam tastes like salt and rind. Beards bristle, chafe the corners of Dean’s mouth. Foreheads press together; arms and legs tangle. Sam nuzzles up Dean’s jaw and breathes in his ear, “Sleep a while. I’m gonna shower, run, grab some breakfast.”

“Sammy, you’re my hero,” Dean mumbles in post-coital stupefaction. Souls still shriek at the back of his mind, but they’re muffled. Sound of Sam’s shower soothes him; he’s unconscious before it shuts off—

And he’s blood-soaked to his elbows. Clattering chains and Alastair murmuring—

He jerks awake.

“Hello, Dean.” That dick Castiel sits perched on his bed, watching him sleep like an absolute creeper.

Dean shudders. 

*

Back to the future, three days and thirty minutes later, peering through a dirty diner window while Sam works a demon over— 

_with his mind_

—Dean wishes he’d stayed unconscious.

*

He’s trying to feel sympathy for the otherwise innocent suburban schlub who just went full-on Hannibal Lecter on Travis. Sam clearly does—kid’s brooding so hard you’d think he was getting paid for it.

_“My choice.”_

Dean’s trying not to be too smug. He couldn’t have played out a better Scared Straight scenario if he’d engineered it. When the chips were down, Sam didn’t hesitate to torch Rugaru Jack. And now…

_“I’m done. I’m done with all of it.”_

No more psychic crap. Dean’s proud of him. 

He keeps heading east—as good a direction as any. Pushes past Springfield to a little cow town with a Super 8 on the outskirts. He drops Sam off—show of good faith. Fuels up, hits a drive-thru, and comes back to Sam wrapped in a towel with his hair dripping down his naked back. He tugs on sweatpants; Dean concentrates on setting out dinner. 

Footsie. Bad jokes with his mouthful that make Sam’s eyes roll. Sam’s hair curls at his ears and his dimples flash as he chews. 

“Go shower,” Sam says. “I’ll clean this up.” Loaded look says, _Don’t jerk off in there_. He adds, “Take your time,” as Dean swings the bathroom door shut.

 _Don’t jerk off_. No problem.

Humid air brings sweat to his skin as Dean cranks the knob and steam plumes off the tub deck. He grins, steps under the surprising water pressure and lets the stream knock the knots out of his shoulders. Scrubs up, wishes he’d asked Sam to join him. Pictures them soapy, sliding against each other and kissing in clouds. 

Fuck, what he wants to do to that kid. Strip him slow and kiss him filthy. Press against him, grind their dicks together. Spread him— 

_“So much potential.”_ Alastair guided his hand. Girl on the rack—pretty, he might have thought once. Sick glee twisted in him; he could ruin her. 

Dean cuts the water. 

He did ruin her.

Steels himself to explain to Sam how he’d rather just cuddle tonight.

Sam kneeling naked on the bed drops that thought cold. “I want you to fuck me.”

Dean’s dick fills up so fast his head gets light. 

“I got ready while you were in the shower.” Sam’s voice wavers as he holds Dean’s eyes.

And Dean swoops on Sam like a smart bomb. Crashes into him, kissing, groping. Sam’s tongue glides across his lips as he cups Dean’s jaws and tilts his head, pushes deep.

“Want you,” Sam breathes.

Dean slips a finger between Sam’s cheeks, finds slick. He presses in and Sam ripples in his arms, throws his head back. Dean dives, mouths Sam’s neck. Hard. Pressing and sweating and dragging. 

Sam sprawls flat, eyes full of challenge. Dean staggers. Spots a strip of condoms on the nightstand and does his best to hide his shaking hands as he rips and unrolls. Sam watches him with heavy lids, stroking himself between his splayed legs.

“You wanna…” Dean makes a flip-over gesture as he climbs in bed.

“No.” Sam’s eyes widen, pleading. “I wanna see you.”

Dean psyches up. Hovering, he brushes Sam’s lips with a kiss. 

Sam wraps arms and legs around him. Murmurs, “Waited so long.” 

Dean lines up and sinks his head in. Sam convulses, clutches at him. Pressure makes Dean’s vision swim. “God, Sam.”

“Don’t stop.” Sam rocks, draws Dean deeper. Scrabbles at Dean’s back and squeezes Dean between his thighs. Writhes under him. Sam and gravity undo all Dean’s best intentions to go slow. Balls deep. Little brother squirming on his dick, begging for it. Bent in half and leaking on his stomach. Sam grips around him and his knees about give. He curls to meet Dean, shuddery and desperate. 

Dean tips forward. Braces on an elbow, combs Sam’s hair back from his face. “You like it like this, in the ass?”

Sam’s lashes flutter and he clenches on Dean’s cock. That’s a _yes_.

“How ’bout you ride me?” Dean dives, kisses under Sam’s ear, whispers, “Bounce on my dick, show me how you like it.”

Sam moans, and Dean smirks when the next thing he knows Sam’s flipped him under. He can’t stay like this, spread-eagle, not yet. Dean worms and wiggles until he’s leaned back on the headboard, sort of, reclined. He reaches for Sam, tows him close and cups his jaws to kiss him. Sam re-ups the lube, slicks around Dean’s shaft and thumbs the head. Dean lends a hand, helps Sam line up. Eyes roll back when Sam sits down on him, swallows him in quaking heat. 

Jaws slack, chest rising and falling. Sweat shines off Sam’s temples, neck, and shoulders. Spasming cock beads precome. Sam moves, bare tilt of his hips and they both groan. Dean swirls in Sam and the chain reaction shakes them, back and forth until Sam starts fucking for real, braced on the wall above Dean’s head, eyes closed and muscles straining. 

Dean palms Sam’s thighs, scratches his chest. Thumbs Sam’s nipples and pets his flanks. Sam rolls, grinds down, gets all he can. Then he rises up, fucks himself with shallow, grasping strokes. Dean thrusts, can’t help it. Speeding up as Sam gets looser, until the only sounds are panting, slapping skin and bedsprings, bed frame, banging against the wall. 

Their rhythm breaks. Sam’s dick leaks steady and Dean’s balls ache. He takes ahold of Sam, and the kid drops out. All his weight falls on Dean’s hips and he bellows, trembles.

“Come for me, little brother.”

Sam thrashes. Clamps Dean’s dick and rails himself. Dean rubs Sam’s cockhead, spreads slick around. Sam swats his hand away and takes over, brutal. Hollering. He soaks his hand, Dean’s belly. Wrings Dean with his asshole. Dean gets him by the hips and fucks him through it. Once Sam’s getting limp everywhere, Dean eases out. Rolls them to their sides, face-to-face. Jacks off in Sam’s mess, tongue in Sam’s mouth. 

After they’ve cleaned up, relocated to the un-fucked bed, Sam curls himself on Dean’s chest like a little kid. Dean circles Sam’s shoulders, nudges close. Drops a kiss on his sweaty head.

*

He finally gets five minutes alone with Sam after Anna passes out in Bobby’s panic room. Ruby’s fucked off somewhere; Dean neither knows nor cares. He feels sick. Extra crunchy hex bag in his pocket notwithstanding, he should’ve gutted the cunt. Still should, before she turns on them.

He follows Sam into the bathroom without a word. Puts him scrabbling against the sink and rips his top shirt open. Buttons skitter over the linoleum. Sam bends his knees, tries to throw Dean off, but Dean drags his shirt down, twists the sleeves around Sam‘s wrists.

“Oh no,” Dean hisses, gets in Sam’s face. “You fuckin take it.” He bites Sam’s shoulder through his t-shirt. “You let me think that bitch was a stranger, was bad enough.”

Sam snarls, thrashes, tries to free his hands.

“You knew I’d fuckin gank her where she stood.”

“She’s been helpf—”

Dean yanks Sam’s hair, cuts him off with a shiver of teeth up his throat. “You let her touch you.”

Sam gets loose, clutches Dean’s head and holds him, rocks against him while Dean sucks a bruise under his ear. 

“Got her demon stink all over you.” Dean worms fingers under Sam’s t-shirt, rucks it up and breaks contact just long enough to pull it over Sam’s head. Cords in Sam’s neck stand out, teeth clenched so tight they probably squeak. 

“Shoes,” Dean says, and gets to work opening Sam’s fly, peeling Sam’s jeans, boxers and all down to his knees. Sam stumbles. Dean leaves him off-balance, jerks back the shower curtain with a screech and turns the knobs. 

Cold. Dean steps away and strips, gathers up towels and a rag while it heats. Sam climbs in without being told and Dean crowds him, cages him against the wall. Steam plumes. Sweat tickles Dean’s neck as he kisses Sam, plunges his tongue in, swipes Sam’s teeth. Sam clings to him, terrible traction as they grope and skid. 

“Get on your knees,” Dean whispers. 

Sam’s eyes narrow until Dean goes for the shampoo. He bites his lip, makes a dimple pop, palms down Dean’s torso as he kneels. Water pours off Sam’s nose and chin, plasters his hair back and eyelashes down. Dean steps in the spray, shields Sam. Dribbles cheap, sharp-smelling gel in his hand. Gentle fingers. Starting at Sam’s hairline he massages, watches Sam’s breathing, in-and-out. He rubs around, behind Sam’s ears, probes for pressure points until Sam goes limp. Hanging off Dean’s hips, he bares his neck and lets Dean cradle his head in a soapy palm. Sam’s cock strains, hard and dark. Nipples stick out. Goosebumps peak through trickling lather. 

Dean can’t muster better than half-mast. Alastair’s parade of demon whores—Dean’s, _“rewards”_ —flicker past. Bashful and coy and hot and aggressive and shaped like (almost) all his fantasies, but their faces. _Her_ face, twisted, clear to him as the hours ticked down and Hellhounds bayed on his heels. Sick-black like rot. Sarlacc pit in an H.R. Geiger. Sam put his tongue in that hole, put his—

“Up,” Dean orders. “Rinse.”

And Sam’s the kind of obedient that usually only accompanies dire injuries. He sways to his feet, head tipped back. Rakes his dick against Dean’s as they shuffle-trade places. Soap slides down Sam’s neck; pours off his hair. Dean stares as he combs his fingers through, tosses his head and sends foam spraying off in arcs.

Dean fumbles for the Irish Spring, waterlogged gooey in the soap dish. He wraps the rag around it and swipes it on Sam’s chest. Bubbles build, cling and drip. Dean puts the soap aside and swabs up Sam’s neck, pokes behind and in Sam’s ears, spreads suds down Sam’s shoulders. Water sloughs it all away as fast as Dean can smear it on. 

Sam drops his hands, heavy behind Dean’s head. Dean scours and Sam moves with him. Lifts and twists. Lets Dean wash inside his belly button and between his toes. Dean re-ups the soap. Traces Sam’s ankle. Squeezes his calf. Nudges in between Sam’s thighs and Sam moans, shores up in the corner and props a foot on the tub edge. Dean licks his lips; Sam’s dick stands straight up. Dean torments. Starts behind Sam’s balls and cleans him, terry cloth and fingernails, circles and stripes. Sam leaks streaks down his soapy shaft. Cries out, soft and rhythmic. 

Dean stands. Pins Sam to the tiles and clamps around him with the washrag. Sam gasps, thrusts into it and Dean strokes him. Foreheads pressed, Sam mumbles, rants, _missed you, need you, lost without you, please, please, please_. Dean’s dick finally gets on board, perks up for Sam squirming like a stripper next to him. Humid. Treacherous and blinding, building steam and heat and pressure.

Sam goes over yelling Dean’s name. Head back, water drops cascading down his neck, catching in his stubble. Shower’s hot enough Sam’s come feels cool between them. Dean stays pressed to him. Scrubs his cock and balls, jams between his cheeks. Sam blurts aftershocks, claws at Dean’s shoulders. Dean lets go of the rag and shoves a finger raw up Sam’s ass. Sam howls, goes on tiptoes. Overbalanced. Slipping. Arms and feet and fingers scrabble for traction. Sam drives Dean to the far shower wall. Kisses him so hard he busts Dean’s lip between their teeth. Blood trickles. 

Slashing. Splattering and blinding. Copper-iron on his tongue, up his nose. Screaming. 

He wills his way back. Slick fiberglass. Clean steam. Water pouring off him, not red. Sam laps and soothes where he opened Dean up; Dean shoves him off. Shudders. Goosebumps shred his neck and arms.

Sam sizes him up, clocks his limp dick and hard shoulders. Creases split Sam’s forehead and he looks like he’s ready to bolt. 

“It’s not…” Dean’s throat closes. _I’m not jealous_ , he’s sure as shit not gonna say. He rips back the shower curtain and ducks out. 

Sam mercifully cuts the faucet. Tentative: “You know—”

“I don’t want to hear it, dude.” Dean ties his towel around his waist and pitches Sam a clean one. “You want a shave?”

Sam squints, bites his lip but nods. 

Their duffels are downstairs, but Bobby keeps a safety razor he never uses in the mirror cabinet. Half-flat can of Barbasol menthol Dean’s pretty sure _he_ left here, back before…

He shakes that off. Plugs the sink and turns the tap hot. Rinses the razor and swaps out the old blade for a new one, eye on Sam while he dries off. Water slides along the curve of his triceps while he towels his hair. Muscles, thicker than Dean’s ever seen them ripple and flex. Sam pulls the worn terry cloth down his neck, chases wet, rubs his chest, shoulders and arms. 

“Sit.” Dean swallows. 

Sam folds his towel and lays it on the closed toilet lid. “Dean—”

“Trust me.” Dean sets the razor on the vanity, steps between Sam’s knees. 

Sam looks up. Lashes fan and forehead crinkles. Adam’s apple bobs and he nods. 

Dean squirts out a handful of shave cream. Hesitates. Sam chews on his lip, eyes the razor. “Hey,” he says. “Just relax. I got you.” He dips his fingers in the foam and spreads a circle on Sam’s cheek. 

Sam’s shoulders soften, eyelids flutter, head rolls back. Dean lathers him. Stubble tickles Dean’s fingertips. He pauses over Sam’s pulse, one beat. Spreads suds under Sam’s chin and above his lip. Dean wipes his hands on his towel-tied thighs. Heats the razor in the water. Sam breathes deep, so does Dean. 

He starts at the side of Sam’s neck, under his ear, and works in columns, left to right. He cradles the back of Sam’s head, strokes slow. Safety blade bares pink-heated skin. Dean rinses, taps, and scrapes. Wipes soap traces off Sam’s neck and moves up to a sideburn. Left cheek, right cheek. Scritching, rhythmic. Dean runs out his tongue.

“You want me to leave you a little soul patch right there?” Dean winks.

Sam glares at him while he dunks the razor in the sink. 

He clears the last few hairs away from Sam’s mouth and chin. “There you go. All set.” Sam seizes him, hauls him in for a mentholated kiss, licks between Dean’s lips and Dean drops to his knees, to the dirty rug in front of Bobby’s toilet. Gets Sam by the hair and sucks his tongue, laps at the underside. Sam moans, steals all Dean’s air. Mouths down his neck and presses his shaggy head in the curve of Dean’s shoulder. Dean pets, circles and squeezes.

“Come on.” Dean creaks his way to his feet. “We better get some rest while the gettin’s good.”

Sam follows him. “Dean, are you… I mean. You never—”

“I’m fuckin’ exhausted, dude. What do you want me to say?” Dean cuts him off a third time. “My shoulder hurts like a sonofabitch, and, oh. We got a crazy chick in the basement we technically kidnapped.” 

Sam shrinks back.

 _Fuck_. Dean deflates. “You got yours, Sam, that’s…” He wraps his brother up. Tucks Sam’s still-damp hair behind his ear. “I’ll sneak down, get us some clean clothes, huh?”

Look on Sam’s face makes Dean feel like an algebra problem. 

“Just wait here.” Dean flees before Sam gets any closer to solving it.

*

Birds singing in the trees by the side of the road make him want to throw up. 

“I couldn’t do it anymore, Sammy.” He’s gotta push through. What Anna said— 

_“You are not alone.”_

He babbles, “I got off that rack.” 

And when he kissed her, when he took her to his backseat, he was… grasping, he guesses—

“God help me.”

—for before. When all he’d needed was a bottle and a willing body to push all the blood and shit and chaos back.

“I started ripping them apart.”

And all he’d proved by fucking her was how much he needed Sam.

“—the things that I did to them.”

Sam coos at him, something meant to comfort or assuage him, but Dean loses it.

“I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.”

He glances, and Sam’s staring like he’s sprouted a new head. He bolts up off the fender, stalks down the dusty roadside. Boots crunch gravel and snot cakes on his upper lip. Red floods his vision and anguished cries drown out—

Sam’s hand lands on his arm and he spins around swinging. Sam steps back so he misses by a mile. Sam swipes at him. 

“Dean—”

He swats at Sam. Slap-boxing. Sam tries tying Dean up, tries tripping Dean with his giraffe legs before he finally jukes around, snatches Dean’s keys out of his pocket and retreats out of arm’s reach. 

Dean surrenders. Trudges back toward the car before Sam can take point on that too. He climbs in shotgun, turns his collar up and crosses everything he can. Twists toward the window.

They ride silent. Sam dials up a soft-rock station, volume low, and his hand inches across the seat toward Dean’s thigh. Dean stares out the shotgun side at a pair of horses sprinting, shoulder-to-shoulder across a low hill, hugging the white fence. Sam’s palm weighs like a brand above his knee. Thunderclouds pile up as the sun goes down. Lightning flickers in the gray dusk.

Sam stops at the first motel he sees. Not even dinner time yet, but Dean can’t find the wherewithal to argue. He could use a shower—he could use a thousand showers.

“Hey, I got good news.” Sam climbs back in and hands over a room key. “Magic Fingers.” Like an offering. “I’ll go find some quarters.”

Thunder rumbles. Geyser of fresh tears boils in Dean’s guts. He croaks, “Awesome.” Fights the eruption as he fumbles, half falls out the door in his rush. He snatches his clothes bag from the trunk and bolts straight for the bathroom. 

Piss-poor pressure, of course, but the water’s hot. He’d have thought it’d be cold showers for life, if he’d ever entertained the thought of getting out of Hell. Hadn’t contemplated this recurring urge to scrub his skin off. He jangles his junk in the stream and the last of Anna Milton swirls down the drain. Soap sliver in its plastic pack, uncooperative. Slippery-wet. Dean’s nails chewed to the quick. 

He tears it open with his teeth. Lathers his hands. No calluses. No crooked knuckles or cooking scars. Castiel made him clean and new, sure—right on the surface. Dean scrubs his face.

_Saving people._

Even when he did violence— _before_ —he could always tell himself there was some kind of greater good in it. 

_Watch out for Sammy._

And Sammy’s gonna add up all of Dean’s… _fits_ since he’s been back—probably already has. And Dean’s gonna count himself lucky if Sam doesn’t drive off and never look back. 

He’s wasting time, drying between his toes, listening to the rain pelt the roof when the outside lock clicks. Knob twists. Door bangs open and the storm wind sweeps through, rattles everything on hinges. Something heavy _(quarters)_ thunks a table. Sam’s making a racket on purpose.

Dean pulls on socks, sweatpants and an undershirt. Eases out into the cool room.

Sam’s stripping. 

Dean darts his eyes around. They’re salted in. _Do Not Disturb_ sign’s missing—hanging on the outer knob. Curtains closed. Shiny foil and a pink-capped bottle on the foot of the bed. Non-perishable snacks and an empty six-pack next to the mini-fridge.

“I didn’t know what you’d want,” Sam says, “so I kinda got everything.” Naked to his socks, holding his boxers in front of him like a fig leaf. Shaking like one, just under his skin. 

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean summons a smirk. “We’ll-uh, get to that later, huh?” 

Sam exhales, drops his shorts and reaches. “Make me feel good, Dean.” Like a punch in the solar plexus. “Please. I know you can.”

The storm front hits so abruptly Dean can feel the pressure drop. He drifts across the carpet and Sam meets him. Cups Dean’s head in his hands and attacks Dean’s lips. Licks his way in, worms his tongue between Dean’s teeth. Dean sighs and gives over, snakes an arm behind Sam’s waist and offers up his neck. Goosebumps run across his shoulders as Sam dives for a tender spot. Rain patters in the parking lot.

“Dude. Passionberry?” Dean blurts. Sam’s bought flavored lube.

Sam turns Dean loose, turns red from his hairline to his collarbones. Huffs, “They were out of everything else!” 

Dean clutches the lifeline. “Sure they were.” He steers Sam to the nearest bed. “And if I just _happened_ to want to eat you out—”

Sam buckles. Thunder crashes. Sam sits on the bed edge and feels up Dean’s fast-filling dick while Dean gets naked to the waist. He balls a fist in Sam’s hair, eyes on the ceiling while Sam unties, drags down Dean’s sweatpants. He steps out of the ankles and ambushes Sam, tumbles them. They kiss and slide together. Sam clings, moans quiet. Rhythmic. 

“Get on your knees for me?” Dean murmurs, when they come up for air.

Sam takes a deep breath, grins around a bitten lip. Storm rises, inside and out. Sam turns himself on his stomach and Dean starts kissing the backs of his knees. Ticklish. Sam trembles. Pissy-hot: “Dean…”

He forces a chuckle. Glides Sam’s legs apart.

Sam hums, humps the bedspread. “God, your hands, you feel so good.”

Dean mutters, “I ain’t even done anything yet,” and he squeezes Sam’s thighs, thumbs in between. Strokes up past his balls, spreads his crack. Shadows. Scattered, coarse hairs. Sam rocks to his knees, bends his back, shows Dean everything. Dean stabs around for the lube, sick-sweet puff when he flicks the cap. _Passionberry_. He musters a snicker. He should mock Sam until the end of time for this. 

“Don’t start.” Sam twists, throws a glare.

Dean’s tension ratchets down. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He answers Sam’s eye-roll with a smear of slick, warm from his palm. Sam jolts, sways into it, moans in the pillows— _overselling_ , Dean realizes, and it hits him in the chest, in the throat. Tears threaten.

 _“Make me feel good.”_

Crafty little shit. 

Dean dives in, skates his tongue across Sam’s hole and makes him yell and shake. Passionberry’s pretty goddamn gross, like a scented crayon, but Dean licks anyway, sloppy-wet until it’s mostly washed away. Wind blows so hard it bangs the door in its frame, billows the drapes through closed windows. Sam swears, eggs him on, grinds on his face and flutters on his tongue. He puts his hands everywhere. Pulls Sam’s cheeks apart, pets Sam’s thighs and clutches his hips. Teases his cock. Dean’s jaws start to ache but he works Sam from his balls to his tailbone, rims him until his porn-star moans melt into honest begging. 

He pours more of that silly lube. Spreads it around. Kisses a trail up Sam’s spine. “You like getting that ass licked,” he breathes in Sam’s ear. Circles Sam’s entrance with a finger. “Hungry little hole.”

Sam makes a choked sound, and when the tremor passes Dean presses in. He feels, as much as he hears Sam’s moan, feels him flex and rock. He takes Dean to the knuckle without a hitch, wiggles and bends. Thunder rolls almost nonstop.

“Keep going,” Sam says. “I can take another.” 

Hard as he’s clamped down on the one already in him, Dean kinda doubts it. 

Lightning strobes through the gap in the curtains. Sam bucks, and Dean gets the hint, gets behind him. Palms the small of his back and fingerfucks, opens Sam up. Sam squirms, rails himself. Cries with pleasure and surges into Dean’s hands, rather than cringing away. Dean tugs, teases, feels around inside.

“Don’t—” Sam clenches on Dean’s fingers. “ _Fuck!_ ” He lets rip a string of cuss words. “Right there. Right there.” 

_Bossy._ And Dean’s so turned on he’s got tunnel vision. He touches where Sam says and marvels as he quakes. “Can you come like this, Sammy?” They’ve fucked around enough times he can tell it’s close. 

Sam groans. Thick and labored. “Not yet, not yet.” Sweaty skin gleams and muscles tic. He tilts. Takes Dean deep one time and tips forward. 

Dean slips free. Sam gets out of bed and leaves him shell-shocked with his dick in his hand, until he realizes Sam’s going for the quarters. 

“Sammy!” He could kiss that kid.

Nostrils flare. “Get on your back.”

Dean flips so fast he gives himself vertigo. Sam stalks toward him sporting a raging hard-on and a smoldering, sardonic grin. Dean gets a rubber ripped open before Sam’s on the bed, on _him_ , snatching the packet and sacking Dean up himself. Dean concentrates on the water rings in the ceiling tiles while Sam slicks him, babbles filth at him. He’s gotta calm down or he’s gonna shoot this condom full before he seals the deal. 

Sam looms over him. Clatter on the window says hailstones. Dean crackles in his skin. Sam brandishes a quarter. “You ready?” gets swallowed in a thunderclap. 

Dean nods. Holds his dick still while Sam lines up. His cockhead nudges between Sam’s cheeks, warm and slick and then pressure; Sam swirls and sinks down and they both moan. Dan balls fists. Grits his teeth. Sam burns him up. Tips forward. Quarters clatter in the mechanism and Dean seizes Sam’s hips. Thrusts up. Gets buried just in time for the bed to start jumping.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean’s living out, like, seven different fantasies in one. Bouncing Sam on his dick, not even trying. Sam flops like a ragdoll, hair sweat-stuck to his face and jaws slack. “You’re so hot.” Dean hangs onto Sam, lets him ride. Sweet talks, “Yeah, that’s it, get yours, little brother,” and Sam shudders. Leaks a string of precome on Dean’s belly. 

He’s getting incoherent, fighting the rhythm of the Magic Fingers, concentrating, trying to fuck Sam so deep his throat gets sore. They outlast the timer. When the bed gets still Sam sits all the way down. Grinds. Dean rolls with him, pets his thighs and sides.

“You feel so good, Dean,” He says again, head thrown back. Hands in his hair. 

Dean takes Sam in hand, barely has to stroke him and Sam blows, shoots all over Dean and his clenching sets Dean off. He yells, comes until he aches, until he’s sure dry-twitching is all he’s got left. Sam curls against his chest. Rocks him with aftershocks. Dean kisses in his hair and palms circles on his back.

Rain’s letting up when Sam peels off him. Limps to the vanity where he soaks a hand towel. Dean trashes the rubber and crowds Sam in front of the mirror. Takes over cleaning him.

“Thanks, man,” Dean says. Doesn’t make eye contact with Sam’s reflection. He moves around to mop up the mess between Sam’s thighs.

“Don’t—” Sam hisses when Dean swipes where he’s tender. Spreads his legs. “Don’t mention it.” 

Dean drops the nasty towel in the garbage. Kisses Sam on the shoulder. Finally meets his gaze.

Sam hits him with wide, wet, eyes. “I know you just got out, but…” Dean’s been helpless against that face for as long as he can remember. “Shower with me?” 

“Sure, Sammy.” 

*

“So where are we headed?” Sam climbs in, stows his laptop in the backseat.

Dean starts the engine. “Nowhere special.” Flips a grin.

“Nowhere special.” Sam picks up the old routine. “I always wanted to go there.”

“Come on!” Dean wheels out of the diner lot, points in the direction of less traffic and rolls. They wind between low hills, bare branches and stunted grass, scattered evergreens.

“They’re doing this shit on purpose, you know,” Dean says.

Sam faces him, wrinkle in between his brows.

“Heaven and Hell.” He snorts. “They’re trying to split us up.”

“Dude.” Sam shakes his head. “Why would Heaven—”

“Fuck if I know, man. They’re sadistic bastards?” 

Sam flinches. 

“All I know is you and me—” Dean thumps Sam’s arm. “—we gotta stay solid.” 

Sam’s chest heaves. He bites his lip and nods. “You and me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please [share the love with nisaki-chan](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/641773218954379264/deluge) on Tumblr


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